


What do you mean he's mine?

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-06 18:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10341294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What's your name sweetie?''My name?' A shy voice whispered.'Yes, your name.''John, miss. But mummy called me Johnny sometimes.'





	1. Chapter 1

What's your name sweetie?'

'My name?' A shy voice whispered.

'Yes, your name.'

'John, miss. But mummy called me Johnny sometimes.'

** **  
The loud ringing of a brand new phone startled Sherlock Holmes out of his stupor. It vibrated in rhythm to its ringtone, the musical version of 'Something Just like this' by Coldplay and The Chainsmokers.

The model of the phone was new, and not to hit the streets for a few more months. But naturally, if your brother pracitally runs the British government (but only claims to occupying a 'minor' position) you're bound to get the latest gadgets. 

He groaned in annoyance as he left his mind palace in a sulk. He was so close to solving a case -a 9!- about a murder. The murderee (?) (Victim) was left tied to a street lamp by her intestines. There were no fingerprints or DNA traces of any sort, which puzzled everyone, especially that idiot, Anderson.

Why anyone let Anderson be on forensics, was beyond Sherlock. And that was saying something. 

He slammed a large and pale hand atop the phone and with a sigh pulled his thumb to receive and accept the call.

"Yes?" He asked with a exasperated and annoyed sigh.

"Why, have I got a call from the Ss?" Lestrade's voice rang out the receiver. 

Sherlocks brow furrowed in confusion. 

"I don't.….know? And don't really care. Why are you calling me about this?"

"Get down to the station and see for yourself. You might not like the result." He spoke and rung off, leaving Sherlock to contemplate the outcome of his visit to the NSY.

** **  
"And who is your mummy?"

"Mummy's dead. You told me."

"That's right, I did."

A pause. Then the same voice again

"And your daddy?"

A hesitated pause. 

"M'not sure. Mummy never said." The voice of a little boy spoke

"Would you like to meet your daddy?"

"Yes, please." He responded without hesitating 

** **  
He walked into the station with a calm, collected look on his face whereas on the inside, he was a raging turmoil of questions and emotions. 

Why the sudden phonecall? The Ss? For what? How did it include him? Why wasn't nobody offering him coffee??

Shaking his head out of his mental stupor, he walked briskly to Lestrade's office. Opening the door with a bang, he spoke with a bored baritone voice,

"I was summoned because…?"

"CHRIST! Sherlock, knock next time!" Lestrade chided and placed a hand over his rapidly beating heart.

Sally Donovan was sat in the chair opposite Lestrade, and sighed bitterly, before turning her gaze to Lestrade.

"Are you sure we have to hand over all responsibility to him?"

"It seems so. It's legally his after all."

Sherlock was puzzled. All responsibility? Legally his?

Lestrade must have noticed the puzzled look on Sherlocks face because he ushered Sally out the room with orders to 'fetch it'.

He motioned for Sherlock to sit down, and when he did, Lestrade begun to narrate.

"It's been brought in this morning. The mother was dead naturally. Poisoning, clear suicide. We ran tests. It's yours." He spoke with a 'I-shall-not-tolerate-any-arguments-on-this-matter'.

Sherlock opened his mouth.

"It's mine? What is mine, exactly? Why are we talking about a dead mother?" He looked even more confused.

Lestrade shook his head.

"I think it will explain itself better."

They didn't wait long. A mere five minutes later, Sally walked back in, empty handed. 

"Are you really sure? " She asked one last time with an exasperated look.

"Positive. " came Lestrade's curt reply.

She sighed and gently spoke in a murmured tone. As she did that, a blond mop of small curls (not as vibrant as Sherlocks) and delightful brown eyes. He peaked round Sally's knees, the top of his head barely brushing them. Gaining a sudden ounce of self confidence, he stepped out a couple of steps forward.

He wore a small blue jumper and childish blue jeans with white trainers. Sherlock decided he was about 4.

"Who is that, miss?" The little boy asked in a shy whisper.

"That's your daddy."

Sherlock neatly fainted. Since when did he have a kid?! He cast about his mind quickly, but could find no mention or memory of anything other than asexual productivity.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked. 

The other two adults in the room nodded grimly.

The small boy toddled towards Sherlock.

"Are you really my daddy?' He tilted his head curosily.

"It's rude not to introduce yourself." Sherlock replied.

The small boys mouth formed an 'O' and he stepped closer.

"John! My name is John!" He pointed to himself with enthusiasm.

Sherlock nodded in approval.   
"Much better." He said.  
John scrambled up and onto his lap, balancing his small hands onto Sherlocks shoulders before he ran one small hand through the detectives curls.

"They're so…..curly!" He decided on a word to describe them. Sally and Lestrade laughed at Sherlocks outraged expression.

"Naturally. Do they look straight to you?" He asked John sarcastically.

"No?" He asked with a tilt of his head.

Sherlock gave a sigh and ruffled the boys hair. 

"Explain." He gave the one word command to Lestrade.

"Found him this morning. Suicidal mother, died by poisoning, which was self administered. Boy was found in cot bed, sleeping. The neighbours called 911 after the mother refused to answer the door. Apparently she had been a very active member of the community. When we searched her apartment and scanned her fingerprints and matched her name, nothing came up. She technically doesn't exist." He finished the tale. 

"That shouldn't be possible." Sherlock rumbled and thought over the situation, trying to find loopholes. It was in vain as he hadn't found any, and there were currently more pressing matters to attend to. Mainly the squirming bundle on his lap.

"Do stop that John, it is highly annoying." He chided gently. The boy jumped in surprise at being spoken to.

"Send me more details as they come in. I'm gonna have to text Mycroft." He looked extremely upset to be doing that, but reluctantly pulled out his new phone and texted the older Holmes sibling.

Found possible nephew. Come to Baker St.  
-SH

He turned off his phone and picked up the bundle, rapidly making his way outside. Once he left the NSY, he hailed a cab with a brief shout of 'TAXI!' and settled in after telling the driver his address.

He got out hurriedly, payed the driver and was relieved to see his brother in the armchair that wasn't Sherlocks when he stepped into 221B.

"You got here quickly."

"The possible nephew was too interesting to pass up. "

"Expectable." He responded and sat down in his arm chair, glancing at the bundle (John) which had fallen asleep at somepoint.

"He's quite adorable. "

"Obviously. He's mine."


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's my son!"
> 
> "They're his grandparents. And they don't do drugs!"

A child isn't a hobby."

A pause.

"I realise. "

"You can't keep him as an experiment. He needs be catered for. Properly. "

"Are you suggesting I can't take care of MY son?"

"You guessed correctly."

** **  
John Watson was born on the 31st of March, and was currently 4 years old. Up until he 'found' Sherlock, him and his mother had travelled, living in different countries until he had turned 3, when she chose to settle in an apartment complex which included a nursery for busy parents. 

He lived happily with his mother, and no resident ever complained about them. As such, it was terribly upsetting to find out his mother is dead, and the little blond angel wasn't coming back.

The last the residents saw of John Watson, was him being carried out in a red blanket whilst he slept.

** **

"I could looked after him."

"No! He's mine!"

"Well, if you ever get bore-"

"I won't."

** **  
Sherlock Holmes, now new parent extrodinaire, ex-single liver, sighed bitterly for the 50th time. The little bundle who had slept upon arrival and exit of Mycroft had awoken and turned out to be quite the petulant child. A single 5 minutes could not go by without John asking a question along the lines of, 'What's this?' Or 'what does it do?'. It drove Sherlock mad.

At this very point in time it was quite. Much too quiet. The consulting detective had not seen hide nor heard of John of the past five minutes.  
It was suspicious.

He scanned his icy blue eyes around the room, and, not seeing a bundle of blond hair or hearing a mischievous laugh, he allowed himself a fraction of a tenth of panic.

Where was his son?!

He frantically scoured the appartment for him, but all was quiet. Then, suddenly, quiet whimpering could be heard from upstairs. He tore up the stairs and flung the door open, discovering John whimpering in a corner.

He picked the small child up and cuddled him akwardly.

"There..there…what's wrong?" He asked in a soothing tone.

"I got locked in….didn't think you were coming.." he whimpered.

"Why would you think that?".

"Mummy told me no one was ever gonna come for me again." 

The words hit Sherlock in the heart and he found himself consumed by the strangest desire to sob. Instead he hugged John just a little tighter and whispered sweet nothings into his tiny ears.

** **  
"What school is he going to attend?"

"Why ask me, when you enrolled him somewhere already?"

"We're moving off topic anyway. Mummy and Father want custody over him."

"They won't have it."

"The court is looking favourably in their favour. You have a drug history, Sherlock and I warned you that one day it was going to destroy you."

** **  
It was the first and last time that Sherlock Holmes let his son in the kitchen. It usually wasn't a problem to sink deep into his palace, knowing that John wouldn't go further than the doorframe as he preferred to cling to Sherlock. So, on that after toon, he took to his mind palace and left John playing with some old case files. 

However, his attention didn't stay on them for long and begun to waver. He stood up and headed for the kitchen. Upon the kitchen table, stood a corrosive chemical. It was orange in colour and was placed in a juice glass, which is why John mistook it for orange juice.

"Daddy, can I drink this?"

No reply.

"Can I? " more persistently.

Once again, he received no reply. Sighing, he climbed onto a chair in pursuit of the glass. Once he stood akwardly balanced on the edge of the chair, his small pale arms reached towards the glass and grabbed it with the edges of his fingers.

However, at that moment, a loud crash verbrated through the door as Lestrade came in which caused John to wobble and crash into the table, and thereby meaning that the whole incident resulted in once smashed corrosive chemical glass, it's contents all over the floor by far from John.

Sherlock has been shaken from his palace by the crash and whimpers made by John. The little miscreant was sitting in the chair, looking scared and sheepish. It took one glance at the spilt chemical before Sherlock turned into a fretting mother hen.

"Did you touch it? Drink it? Did it spill on you?!" He just about shook John.

"N-no daddy….but it's orange juice."

"No…it's dangerous." He said and glared midly at John. The boy fidgeted in his seat and apologised. 

Whilst this was happening, Lestrade sighed bitterly. He entered the kitchen and gave Sherlock a full lecture on 'proper child care!'

** **  
"He's my son!"

"They're his grandparents. And they don't do drugs!"

** **

"Daddy…?"

"Yes..?" A deep voice rumbled.

"Mummy said that you hated flowers."

The older of the two nodded. Flowers were weak and always dying, seeing as how they lasted only 2/4 of the year.

He glanced at the small figure next to him. The boy was holding his hand tightly as he skipped alongside.

He was wrapped in a coat and scarf and mittens and hat, which meant that only his nose peeked out and gained a shade of red. It was cold and the father-son duo were making their way to Angelos for dinner as they had no food at home.

It was moments like these that Sherlock took for granted and treasured. Memories of him and his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think so far?


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is John's mom? Will I reveal her identity in this chapter?

**  
3 months earlier

**  
"Mama?" A voice spoke up, muffled slightly behind a barrier. The barrier was a blanket, which covered a plank of wood with a large enough hold ripped out of it, that a small child could climb into. 

The hidey-hole was constructed under the back seats of a jeep, which at this very point in time was travelling over hot, Afganistan Sands.

Inside the small crawl space was a boy, curled into a ball and wincing everytime the jeep took a sudden dip in the soft and hot sand.

He clutched a tatty brown bear to his chest, curled up under a dark blue blanket, his beige yellow haired head laying on a coverless and strangely stained pillow.

"Mama?" He tried again louder. The reply his got was a thump -twice- on the plank, significantly meant for the purpose of communication.

One thump meant talk.

Two meant silence. 

He bit his lip and squirmed uncomfortably. They've been riding for hours and he wanted something to drink. He was parched.

Outside the boys hideout, and on top of it sat a woman. Her black haired wig and afghan covered any traces of her real hair colour, brown eyes contacts hid her original eye colour. Months of exposure to the Afganistani sun left her a speckled brown.

You couldn't tell who she was.

The woman toyed idly with a phone. On the dark screen, the contacts menu was visible.  
And highlighted by the colour blue was a name.

The name of John's real father.

***  
Present time

***  
"I demand sweets!" John harassed Sherlock for the hundredth time that evening for a sweet-treat.

"No John." He spoke in a baritone tone and went back to playing his violin. A silence ensured over the flat, intrruppted every few minutes with a sharp intake of breath. Finally, Sherlock turned around to see what the toddler was up to. 

His face was crimson and his cheeks were bulging out, for he was attempting to hold his breath- a threat if he didn't get what he wanted. 

"You won't succeed."

John ignored him.

"You might as well give up!" He scolded and stepped closer. John didn't give up and held his breath, which is when Sherlock started to tickle him, to make sure he would stop this breath-holding nonsense.

The little boy fell apart in peals of laughter, the small chortles infectious as Sherlock begun to chuckle with him.

"I always win." 

**  
2 months after John's birth.  
**  
John's mother stood across the street from 221B, staring at a darkened window. She knew who lived there. John's dad. Sherlock Holmes.

She had stood in this place many a time before. Should she ring the bell, knock on the door? Let Sherlock know that he has a Son? 

No. She doesn't do that. Instead, she clutched the bundle of baby closer and nuzzled it briefly.  
She couldn't bare to part with John, and she knew she could never love Holmes.

John was the product of a one night stand. You don't marry your one night stand.

And anyway, she had booked tickets for a plane departure today, from London, England to some small town in Afghanistan.

**  
Sometime before John's moms move to England  
**

"No! Please! I'm begging you!" John's mother screamed and cried, staring in agony at the man who held her son, threatening to break his little pale neck.

"You've had 3 months to pay us back! Where's the money?!"

Baby John was crying, adding to the hysteria in the situation. John's mom was on her knees, face bruised and swollen, lips cut and layered with blood.

"If i don't seen this money before the end of the week, your son won't see a sunrise."

He left, but not after throwing her son in a near-harsh manner on an old mattress that served as a bed.

She cried in relief that her son was fine. 

The next morning they flew to England.

Three months later a police officer was called to the crime scene of a suicidal woman, with a four year old son.

Sarah Sawyer died that day.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You'll shame the family!"
> 
> "Fuck the family!"
> 
> "Just like you, huh?!"

*  
3 months ago  
**  
John's mom stared sadly at Sarah Sawyers dead body. The woman was nice, and always ready to take care of John. John's mom lifted her gaze up as her sleeping son was carried from the bedroom, in the arms of a police officer. She knew this would be the last time she saw him.

Yet she stood rooted to the spot.  
"-eila! Sheila!" The DI yelled her name and she focused on her work. Sheila was her new identity, until she could collect herself and maybe, one day, take back John.

Until then, she focused on taking photographs for a supposed 'suicide'.

John's mom was a murderer.

**  
Present time  
**  
Sheila wondered down the metro stations, having just got off of a train. Since 'losing' John and moving back to London, her tan faded and she resumed the life of a normal, single, 'childless' woman.

At this very point in time, she was heading to the Scotland Yard for her shift. During her journeys to work, her mind often lingered on the possibility of being recognised by John. 

Even if she looked similar to Sarah Sawyer in her disguise, she fretted that John would reveal who she truly was.

She had a hand, obviously, in quickly discovering that John was Sherlocks son. It was all a part of her job, the web she weaved herself when she agreed to be Sherlock Holmes' one night stand.

She did it on purpose.

Each and every single day was planned years in advance, from locations to murders and weapons, taking care of John and avoiding detection.

Hence why she spent most of her time raising John in Afghanistan. 

Sometimes, even if briefly, she wondered what would have happened if she refused and instead never went to the club that night..

**  
Sheila, Age 10  
**  
As a ten year old, she grew up in Lille, France due to her father gaining a promotion at work and being relocated to France. At the time of the move she was only 8, but quickly adapted and learnt the language and culture.

From the age of 9 onwards, she was skilled and taught daily in the art of murder.

"Momma?"

"Shush Sheila*" her mother chided as she listened to the morning radio, trying to decode the news.

"Decode the next paragraph. " She demanded of the young girl.

"And so……on this…….unfortunate day…..we bid goodbye to....The Prime minister……who has…passed away.." the radio blared into the silent room.

"Umm…assassination attempt on the (king/queen/president?) Of France? "  
P

 

**  
Present time.  
**  
"Settle down! Has the jury reached its final decision?" The judge asked, staring at the assembled party. Sherlock and his son, John. Sherlocks parents. Mycroft Holmes. 

John fidgeted on his father's lap, holding onto his shirt tightly.

"Yes, your honour."

"What is the verdict?"

"John is to stay with Mr and Mrs Holmes until his father, Sherlock Holmes can prove no need to abuse the use of drugs again and can prove to be a suitable parent."

**  
The day before  
**  
John moped around the flat, progressively annoying Sherlock. 

"Daddy."

"Daddy."

"Daddy!" He finally shouted and stomped over to his father. In his hands he held a book.

"I wanna read it. Can I? "

He received a nod in response as his father retired to his Mind Palace. Little John stumbled into his father's bedroom and opened the book. It was a graphically detailed 'medical' book.

Some of the pages confused John.

Shutting the book, he resolved to ask his dad about them later. 

**  
Flashback  
**  
John's mum shook as tears dripped down her face.

"I won't do it!" She screamed at her parents, her pregnancy test clutched in one hand. The little red line on it indicated pregnancy. 

"You'll shame the family!"

"Fuck the family!"

"Just like you, huh?!"   
Her father yelled, interuppting the screaming match between her and her mother.

"If you don't abort it, leave!" He finished and waited.

20 minutes later John's mum left her parents and called a cab to take her to Heathrow. A plane for Afghanistan was leaving in 3 hours.

**  
**  
**  
Author note:  
To clarify:  
Sarah Sawyer is NOT John's mum.


End file.
